Pot of gold : a novel Read online

  Claire smiled and shook her head. "I couldn't; we never had enough money. But I paid a lot of attention to her."

  "Most of your attention."

  "Well, yes, when we were together."

  "And you never remarried.''"

  "No." She paused. "And you.'"'

  "Oh, a number of times. Three, after Brix's mother and I were divorced. She tried it twice more. Brix hated it, of course; I think he felt like some kind of mascot that we handed back and forth from one new family to another. And I wasn't there a lot; I was at work most of the time. But then, you were, too, weren't you.''"

  "Not most of the time. I took Emma with me when she was a baby; they let me do that. And the first few years she was at school, when she was still so young, I worked a short day and brought work home. Did your wife work.''"

  "No." He smiled. "She made a career of shopping. She was the sublime shopper."

  "What does that mean?" Claire asked curiously.

  Quentin's eyebrows rose. "It means a passionate lifetime study of the best the world's craftsmen have to offer, where to find it, and how to get it at the best price." He smiled. "I thought all women are born knowing that."

  "Why would they be.?"

  He shrugged. "Sorry; it was a poor joke. The women I know seem to be experts from the time they can walk, but they may not be typical. You do shop, of course; you must have had shopping sprees now and then with your daughter." He looked at her silk dress. "You have excellent taste."

  Claire flushed with pleasure. "We've done a lot of shopping lately, but we're not experts." She felt a strong reluctance to talk about money, and how she came to have it. "When you were at work while Brix was growing up, was it at Eiger Labs.?"

  "No, I was a bond trader in New York. I made a great deal of money—it wasn't hard to do in the eighties—and then I got bored and went looking for something else, something that had nothing to do with Wall Street." He looked across the table at Brix. "I didn't feel in control of anything except making money; nothing else was going exactly the way I wanted it. So I found two other investors and we bought Eiger Labs, called Norwalk Labs, then. It was a good move."

  "For you or for your family.?"

  "For me and for the company."

  "And Brix.?"

  "He lived with his mother in New York, and with me and my wife in Norwalk in the summers. We always had a governess for him; so did his mother; but he never got along with any of them. Of course he wasn't easy to take care of; he had a slow-burning temper that could take the roof off when it was full-blown, but still, no one we hired seemed willing to try to become his friend."

  Claire was watching him, puzzled at the pride in his voice when he talked about his son's temper. "But weren't his parents his friends?" she asked, surprising herself with her boldness.

  There was a silence. "I tried to talk to him as an equal, to explain to him that it was hard on me, too, all those years, with one marriage after another that didn't work, but of course he never believed me; he thought I was doing whatever I wanted, at his expense, while he had to tag along behind."

  "He was right," Claire said, surprising herself again.

  "Partly," Quentin said shortly. "You were more successful, it seems, in making Emma feel secure."

  "Well, I've only had one husband, so I've had plenty of time." Claire wondered what was happening to her: she never was so forward, especially with strangers.

  He frowned. "You mean we give more of ourselves to marriages than to our young. That's a decision we all make; I don't believe in diminishing my own life to give children whatever some experts say they need. You seem to look at it differently. When were you divorced.^"

  "Before Emma was born."

  His eyebrows rose. "A brief marriage."

  "Yes. He didn't want to be a father, so he left." There was a pause and Claire wondered if he wanted her to talk about herself as openly as he had talked about his own life. But I can't, she thought; I have almost nothing to talk about except Emma. She caught a glimpse of a nearby oval mirror in an elaborate frame— the ship seemed to be filled with mirrors; evidently people on cruises liked to look at themselves all the time—and saw her reflection with Quentin's profile just behind her. Here I am, she thought in amazement. How could I have guessed I would be here, on this wonderful ship, moving through strange waters to a strange land, with this very handsome man who seems to enjoy my company.'' A small shiver gripped her, as if there were something to be afraid of. No, no, no, she thought, that's crazy.This is everything I ever longed for; I'm having the most perfect evening of my life. Just because things are wonderful does not mean something dangerous is waiting around the corner. Adventures are waiting; not dangers. Because we have money. Money makes all the difference; money makes evervthing an adventure.

  She felt a flurry of movement and turned to her left to see Hannah standing beside her chair. "I'll say good-night," she said to Claire, and nodded briefly to Quentin.

  (Claire looked beyond her and saw a tall man with flowing blond hair and a full, blond beard. His eyes were a brilliant blue, and his mouth, partly hidden, had an unexpected sweetness as he met (>laire's eyes and smiled. He wore a corduroy jacket and an extravagantly patterned tie. "Forrest Exeter," Hannah said, fol-

  lowing Claire's look. "We're both from Philadelphia, almost the same block. We're going to the library to look at some books he thinks I would enjoy."

  Claire stared at her. Hannah was self-conscious, almost embarrassed—probably because her new friend was very young, Claire thought—but she wouldn't be embarrassed unless this might be a romance, and that couldn't happen. It couldn't, could it.^ Claire wondered.

  "I'll see you in the morning," Hannah said, leaving no room for comments. Her back straight, she took Forrest Exeter's arm and they left the lounge,

  "How odd," Claire murmured. Slowly, she turned back to Quentin and tried to remember what they had been talking about. Oh, yes, he had asked her about her marriage. Well, that didn't bear talking about. "Tell me about Brix," she said. "Is he your only child.?"

  "No, there are two other boys, but their mothers didn't want me to be part of their upbringing and I let that happen; I've always known that other men do a better job of parenting than I do. I'm impatient with children; I assume you've gathered that. It's not that I don't like them, it's just that I don't enjoy the effort it takes to fill the gaps in their knowledge and experience so we can communicate. I find Brix interesting now; I never did, before. Were you and Emma always close.''"

  "Always. It was just the two of us, and we had so little money that we depended on each other for everything. And I had such a good time introducing her to the world and sharing her excitement at every new discovery; it was as if I were seeing it, too, for the first time."

  "Well, your fortunes seem to have changed," he said. The waiter hovered at his side and he nodded. "The same all around."

  "Not for—" Claire started to say, but stopped. Emma's glass was still almost full; she was barely drinking, and it would be better to have another drink in front of her than for her mother to make decisions for her in front of the others.

  Quentin was quiet, and she thought he must be waiting for her to say something about the change in her fortunes. She was suddenly embarrassed by the word lottery. She hadn't earned her sixty million dollars; she hadn't done anything but buy a ticket. She

  was not a success; she had just had a stroke of luck. That was the way it always was with her: she didn't make things happen; they happened to her.

  I could say I inherited it, she thought. Or borrowed to take this trip or saved up for it.

  Or she could be silent. What business was it of anyone how she and Emma came to be wearing these clothes and jewels, and sailing on this ship?

  But Quentin had openly confided in her about his son and his marriages, and she felt she would fail some crucial test if she lied now or was silent.

  "I won the state lottery," she said abruptly.

  He was amused.
"Good for you. I gather it was a big one."

  Claire nodded. "It changed everything for us."

  "And before you won. What did you do then.''"

  Obviously he had not read about her in any newspaper, and just as obviously he was not especially interested. He did not even ask how much she had won. She gazed at him in silence, wondering what it was about her that did interest him. "I was a graphics designer," she said at last. "Assistant, really, with a team at Danbury Graphics."

  "I know them. They bid on a job for us once. We finally gave it to someone else, but I remember one design, for the packaging of a new shampoo; it was very good." Claire was silent, and he looked closely at her. "Did you work on that.''"

  "My group did."

  "And whose concept was it.''"

  Claire hesitated. "That one was mine, but we worked as a team."

  "You mean they were a team and you had no choice."

  "No, I meant what I said. I was part of the team and I did my share of the work."

  "Including not getting credit for your own ideas."

  "We all pooled our ideas."

  "And no one in your group ever took credit for them.''"

  She felt a flicker of anger. Why couldn't he leave it alone? She had made her peace with the fact that others took credit for her ideas; it went with the job. "It didn't matter," she said briefly.

  "I don't believe that. You're a proud, beautiful woman; why wouldn't you take pride in everything you do? ^'ou have a right to

  be proud, and to be recognized and rewarded; you have a right to demand full control over whatever you do, from start to finish. I wouldn't tolerate anyone trying to take that away from me."

  Claire saw Emma look up again, but this time she was too absorbed to worry about what her daughter saw. "How would you stop it.''" she asked Quentin with a smile.

  He shrugged. "There are ways. Once you let others stand in your path, or cross you successfully, they'll see you as a victim and treat you like one. No one will ever do that to me."

  Claire's smile had faded. She felt a chill at the careless assurance of his voice. "No one has ever stood in your path.^ Or crossed

  vou

  "Not for long or more than once. That was a lesson I learned from being passed around from one set of foster parents to another until I cut loose when I was about fourteen. You learn to take care of yourself, Claire, when no one is around to do it for you, and you learn that everything rests on having the power to control the things that happen to you, instead of being swept away by them. After that, the only thing that matters is having influence. There's a difference between influence and power on a broad stage, a nation or across international lines: a handful of people have real power, and guard it, but influence is available to others if they know how to achieve it. Those are the people—most of them invisible—who really run the machinery of the world."

  "And are you one of them.^" For the first time Claire found his talk distasteful, and she wondered if it showed in her voice. But if it did, he ignored it.

  "Not yet. I will be. You've done well at controlling your own life; you've done well for yourself and for Emma, and you did it on your own. Or did you have parents to run to.''"

  "No. I had no one."

  "Well, then, you know what I mean. In a harsh world, we're often forced to behave harshly, and no one can fault us for it. In fact, others probably envy us because we know how to do it. You said you were a graphics designer. What does that mean.^"

  "I left that job a while ago."

  "When vou won the lottery."

  "Yes."

  "Good for you. I can never understand why people say their lives won't change when they come into sudden wealth. Most

  people's lives should change; they're banal and stultified. What will you do after this trip?"

  Claire was silent, frozen with the fear that whatever she said would sound banal or stultified.

  "Because if you haven't filled your schedule," Quentin went on, "I hope to see you when we get home. I have some favorite places I'd like to show you, and I'd like you to meet my friends."

  Claire felt herself relax. Whatever test he had set for her, she had passed. "I haven't decided just what I'll be doing," she said. "My schedule isn't full."

  Across the table, Emma and Brix stood up. "We're going for a walk on the deck," Emma said to Claire. "I don't know what time I'll be back." Don t wait up hung in the air, unspoken.

  "I think midnight is a good time," Quentin said to Brix. He glanced at his watch. "That gives you enough time to get to know the deck very well."

  "Sure," Brix said. But his mouth grew heavy and Claire saw how easily it could become sullen, and how his whole face could follow, heading for a temper tantrum that could take the roof off. She was not sure why she could imagine it so clearly. He was extraordinarily handsome, stockier than his father but with his father's broad shoulders, square chin, and short, strong fingers. Like his father, too, he was wearing a perfectly cut suit and a tie that was not too bold and not too restrained. In fact, there seemed to be absolutely nothing in Brix to worry anyone, even the mother of a seventeen-year-old girl. But Claire worried.

  "Mother's worried," Emma said to Brix as they made their way through the crowded lounge. He held one of the double doors open for her and they went out onto the deck. "Oh, it's cold. I didn't think of that."

  "No, it's fine," he said, and took off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders. "It gives me a chance to be gallant."

  "That's a strange word," Emma said. "Nobody uses it anymore."

  "My dad does. He likes words like that. Sort of old-fashioned."

  "Is he old-fashionedi"'

  "Not really; he likes everything modern, you know, furniture and paintings and things; and he can be a real bastard—oh, sorry— but he is, you know, in business. He just likes people to think

  he's old-fashioned, buying flowers and holding doors open, you know, things like that."

  Emma nodded. "He's very handsome. He and my mother seemed pretty close, pretty fast."

  "So what's she worried about.^" They were strolling along the deck in the diffuse light from overhead ship's lanterns. On one side of them were the slatted deck chairs in a long, unbroken row; on their other side, beyond the ship's railing, a white ribbon of moonlight stretched across the slow, dark waves of the Inner Passage. A few stars could be seen, and Emma fastened her gaze on the brightest one, suspended low in the sky. For me, she thought; it's shining just for me. Brix's jacket was warm on her shoulders. It's shining for the most wonderful night of my life.

  "She can't be worried about me," Brix went on. "She doesn't know anything about me."

  "I don't know. Mothers worry, and half the time you don't know why. I suppose it's different for boys."

  "Well, nobody ever worried about me. My mother wasn't around much, and then there was this parade of stepmothers I told you about, and they hardly noticed me; they were too busy trying to figure out how to hold on to my dad. They didn't, though; they all lost. The only people who cared what I did were all those governesses my mother kept hiring, and they only cared because they were afraid of losing their job. Between wives, my dad would have me come and live with him, and then he d hue a governess, but then he'd find some woman and I'd go back to my mother until he got tired of whoever he had. Lots of times they weren't married, they were just living together, and he'd decide he was finished and ready to move on. He's always been that way; he does what he wants. He doesn't give any hints up front, he just makes his move, and if something's in his way, he gets rid of it."

  His voice was almost flat, but Emma heard the pride in it more than she heard his words. Why would Brix be proud of a father who didn't pay attention to him.^ But she did not want to criticize Quentin until she knew whether Brix really was proud of him or not. "He's very impressive," she said.

  "Right." They walked in silence for a moment. "He needs things to be happening, you know, something always happening; it kills him to sta
nd still. Every year he's got to be richer than before, and more important, more powerful, you know, bigger

  and better. Otherwise it's like he's dead. He said that; he told me that. It's hke he's always running a race with somebody."

  Emma had a swift moment of clarity in which she knew that Brix was talking about himself as well as his father, that they were identical in this, and that Brix was proud of his father and would want to be like him in other ways as well, maybe ways that weren't so nice. But she let the thought fall away; she felt too slow and lazy to hold on to it. The deep murmur of Brix's voice, so close to her, the hum of the ship's engines that seemed to vibrate within her, the lingering fire of the cognac she had sipped, all made her want to open up to the soft night, to stop thinking and just feel.

  "You're amazing, the way you listen," Brix said. He took Emma's hand and brought it through the crook of his arm so that the long side of his body pressed against hers. "You know, I told you about Eiger Labs in there. It's usually not the greatest, working for your old man, but we really work together, I mean, he trusts me, you know, and it's getting better; I'm a vice president and I'll take over in a few years when he retires or buys some other companies." There was a silence. "You can learn a lot from him; he's so far ahead of everybody, he's outthinking people and outdoing them all the time."

  "You look like him," Emma said.

  "I know. You should see pictures of him at my age; it's like twins. Sometimes, it's sort of scary, like I'm not really me, I'm just him repeating himself." He stopped and turned Emma to him. "I like talking to you. I like your name, too. Emma." He said it softly, caressing it with his voice. "Emmmmma. It's like humming; you can sort of hum it under your breath even while you're talking about something else. And you're so beautiful. I'll just look at you and say your name; how would that be.-^ My God, you're blushing. I didn't know girls did that anymore. You don't have to blush; I'm ver' sincere. Sincere and gallant."